Fuggi, Regal Fantasima
by Bliss Jones
Summary: There are moments when I forget who I am, moments when pieces of another life that cannot be mine seep into my being.


Disclaimers: Alias and all its characters belong to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and Touchstone. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just trying to make sense of season three. Explain yourself, J.J.!   
  
Spoilers: general season three, "Second Double," "The Telling," "After Six," promo for "Blowback" (note: I haven't read any spoilers; this is all just conjecture on my part)  
  
Author's Notes: at the end  
  
***  
  
"There's a change coming, Jack. Something even I couldn't imagine."  
  
- Sloane, The Telling  
  
***  
  
There are mornings when I wake up convinced I am crazy. There are days when I am consumed with memories and images left over from nights of restless dreaming. There are evenings when my grip on reality grows weaker and weaker.   
  
Today, I'm remembering Sydney's seventh birthday. Sydney has invited her friends to a tea party in the park, all the little girls in summer dresses, pinks and blues and lavenders. There are presents toppled high on the table and a cake with fancy icing, Sydney's favorite. Sydney looks happy for the first time since her mother died. She's clutching the teddy bear with the giant red bow I've given her.  
  
But I wasn't at that party. I never gave Sydney a teddy bear. I was on deep cover assignment that year, working in the consulate in Moscow. Jack never told me about that party. I hadn't even met Sydney yet. But I can picture Sydney's face smiling up at me, happy that I am there with her.   
  
There are moments when I forget who I am, moments when pieces of another life that cannot be mine seep into my being.   
  
As time goes on, it becomes easier to remember that I was in love with Emily. I remember meeting her for the first time at that conference in Washington, remember walking her back to her hotel, remember our first kiss on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial. I remember proposing on that Sunday at the beach, but when I try to remember the wedding, I can only see Laura smiling back at me from behind the veil, her dark eyes dancing with joy. We were so in love.  
  
But it was Emily I was in love with. Not Laura. I knew the truth about Irina from the beginning and the pain it would unleash once she was finished. But the betrayal came as a shock. I remember staring down at the KGB files in numbing disbelief. My wife.  
  
Why do I remember Sydney's birth? I was not there. In my mind, I can picture it so clearly: Laura, drenched in sweat, trying not to push until the doctor says so, the nurses milling about the hospital room, and me, clutching Laura's hand, telling her she's doing fine.   
  
In truth, the injections help. I was adverse to them at first, especially since I could find no medical reason to go through with them, just an intense desire to feel relief. The implements were just there on the nightstand when the dreams started two years ago, when I was still a fugitive, after what happened in Mexico City. Those other memories would stop after an injection. For a while anyway.   
  
Why do I remember being strapped to a table in Mexico City, listening as Il Dire was being constructed in the next room? It worked, didn't it? Why did Sloane let me live? I got up from the table at the outdoor café, didn't I? But I am Sloane. I let Jack live.  
  
I meant what I said when I saw Jack. He's finally becoming the kind of father to Sydney he should have been all those years before. Those two years when she was gone really changed him. At times, it's almost difficult to remember the man he used to be.   
  
I don't remember telling Emily the truth about SD-6. I know I did, but I don't know what I said or where we were. I don't remember the kinds of flowers she used to grow in her garden or what her favorite wine was. And part of me thinks I'm not supposed to know.   
  
But I remember the perfume Laura wore on our first date. I remember Sydney's first report card and her favorite kind of ice cream. I remember the torment of being locked in that cell after the accident, knowing my little girl was alone, thinking her father didn't love her. I remember the comfort of staring at a bottle of bourbon, feeling my insides burn just from the sight of it.   
  
I should not know these things. I am not Jack. At least that's what I have to keep telling myself between injections, after the affects have worn off.  
  
There is a plan in place. It's strange that I don't know all the details, strange that for most of the day, I have to remind myself who I am, why I'm here, why Sydney is on the other side of the world, why she hates me, and why I care so much about her and her father. I am her father. I know I am.   
  
My name is Arvin Sloane. I am not Jack Bristow. My name is Arvin Sloane. I am not Jack Bristow. My name is not Arvin Sloane. I am Jack Bristow.   
  
***  
  
A/N 1: 'Fuggi, regal fantasima' translates to 'Flee, regal phantasm'. It's from Act III of the Italian opera, Macbeth by Giuseppe Verdi. [http://www.aria-database.com/] It's also used in song by Rufus Wainwright.  
  
A/N 2: Um, okay, Sloane shooting up with Kryptonite and his cryptic talk to Dr. Barnett in "After Six" had me really confused and dropped a bizarre thought in my head. There's so much we still don't know, like what Il Dire does, how Jack was able to leave that table in Second Double, what Sloane learned on his trip to Tibet. So here's my what if: what if Il Dire managed to somehow transfer Sloane into Jack's body and Jack into Sloane's?   
  
Trippy, yes, which is why this fic is trippy as well. I have no idea how or if to continue this story. It just needed to be written. Thanks for reading. 


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